


Five Missing Pieces

by extremiss



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Young Justice, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 09:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremiss/pseuds/extremiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone Dick loves just... slips away.</p><p>[told in the point of view of Death]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Missing Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> this is told in death's point of view!! as in literally death. kinda like the grim reaper stuff yeah
> 
> originally got some inspiration from a text post on tumblr about dick calling wally up when jason, bruce, and damian died and someone was like: WHOS HE GONNA CALL NOW, WALLY IS DEAD and i cried inside
> 
> also, the book thief is my favorite book ever y'all should read it
> 
> (i didnt proofread aaa all mistakes are mine)

 --

 

 

            You didn't deserve it. You still don't. I've taken too much from you, left so little. If I could apologize, I would. Profusely and sincerely. If I could had done anything to make the pain more bearable for you, I would have. With every fibre of my being, I would have tried to help. But I deem myself more useless than a human. There's not much more I could have done.

            You, Richard John Grayson, haunt me.

            It's preposterous, that sometimes I lose the will to collect souls anymore. All because I'm haunted by your tears.

            The least I could do, I figured, is tell the world your simple tale.

 

 

 --

 

 

I.

 

            You began like any other child. Wide-eyed, innocent, optimistic. You were the sunshine and the brilliance of all the stars in the galaxy, compressed into a small, quick-witted and talented boy. Sometimes, when you were especially happy, the light seemed to glow under your skin.

            _The Flying Graysons;_ that's what they had called you and your family. You had been accustomed to impressing the audiences, even at that age. You were a true performer. (This was a trait that stuck to you for the rest of your life, I noted.) Your act was daring and every bit dangerous, for you and your family did not use a net. This was also why people came spilling in the arena seats within the circus tent—they all wanted to be shocked and dazzled by the spectacle you'd always put out.

            You were nervous one time, because tonight there'd been double the number of people. Your mother hugged you, and your father placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. With simple actions and words, your nervousness dissipated and was replaced by the brightest of smiles.

            You thought it was going to be okay.

            You thought it was _always_ going to be okay.

            But you were a child. You were wide-eyed, innocent, _foolish_ —but I couldn't blame you. The rope where your father and mother stepped on snapped, sending them both down, down, and down—to their imminent death. And you saw it all happen with your own eyes. Spared, helpless, useless, you stood.

            I saw you. How frightened you were. How lost you were. The fear turned into sadness and anger and confusion all at once, and it became too much for you. The tears spilled out and over, wetting both of your red cheeks. I reached out to wipe your tears that day, but my bones of a hand passed through your face. I began to feel useless as well.

            Thankfully, Bruce Wayne caught you before you fell further into this suffocating sadness. He'd given you a task—a costume to wear and a responsibility to uphold, to distract you from the heartache. He knew where you came from; he'd been there once, too. In turn, he took care of you. He took you in, and suddenly, it was like having a father again.

            The whole situation forced you to grow up too fast for your age. At the ripe age of nine, you had to be well acquainted with crimes and murders and bloodshed. Soon, I figured you would become too mature. Too jaded. Ultimately, you would not be the same person boy I once found in the circus.

            But I was wrong. The brightness within you remained and persisted.

            But so did the pain.

           

 

II.

 

            You soon outgrew the colors green, red, yellow, and black. You shed the Robin cape, and became your own man. It was about time you became independent. About time Batman started seeing you as a partner; an _equal_. You now went by _Nightwing_.

            Yet for some reason, upon learning of _Jason Todd_ , who would then next fill your shoes, you couldn't help but feel slightly betrayed. A bitter feeling settled within you, once you came to the realization that you were being _replaced_. Because of such feelings, you didn't welcome or receive Jason like you should have. In the beginning, you were cold. Distant. It wasn't like you, although, to reject someone so quickly. So you would soon warm up to him.

            There were those off-duty nights where he'd be leaning on your side, and he felt small under your arm. It was different because when fighting, he'd be tough and determined. Right now, he was just a kid. Sometimes you would forget that. The glow of the TV screen reflected on both of your eyes, as you watched a Disney movie. You had watched it countless times before. Jason hadn't.

            "What a lame movie, it's all romance and no action." Jason had complained. You know he didn't mean it because the look of wonder in his eyes betrayed him. It caused you to have a fond smile cast upon your face. Bruce found you both asleep on the couch later that night, a light sound of a musical playing from the TV stereo. You didn't know it was possible, but you had started loving him. By the time you'd begun treating him like your own brother, it was too late. (This was why you tried harder when Tim came along. You didn't want to make the same mistake.)

            You weren't there when it happened.

            You didn't even know it was happening when it was.

            But I was there. The poor boy had been beaten with a crowbar brutally, until blood pooled under his writhing form. He had a hard time breathing from all the blood dripping from his nose, and his bones were shattered under his skin and muscle. A laugh filled the air, right before the warehouse boomed with an explosion. I carried his soul with me, but I left his body behind for Batman to cradle.

            You haven't cried in a while. This seemed like the first time in ages. You blamed yourself. You were overcome with guilt. I wanted to correct you. I wanted to tell you that Jason's final thoughts have been of you and Bruce; how much he loved you both. But again, I couldn't do anything for you. Still quietly crying, you called your retired friend, Wally, at three o'clock in the morning. He was confused, mostly because you two hadn't spoken to each other in a long while since he had decided to leave the superhero scene. But like any real friend, he listened. And he comforted you. Your tears dried and you fell asleep to the sound of his voice.

            Now, you pass by the Hall of the Fallen Heroes. You stop by his hologram, and the memories come flooding in. You stay there, reminiscing, when no one was around.

            Your losses just kept adding up. I couldn't stop it.

 

 

III.

 

            If you were to be honest, you weren't really given any real chances to be a normal child. Your childhood had either been too grand or too violent, but it had always been closed off. You had no friends. None in school, because they'd avoid you—something about being the ward of one of the world's richest and influential people put them off. None in your respective team, because you were under strict orders to hold onto your secret identity, no matter the cost.

            You broke the rule. You removed the glasses that shielded your electric blue eyes. You revealed your identity in the form of a familiar name that was carried in newspapers.

            And _his_ name was Wally West. His uncle was the Flash, Barry Allen. He had the uncanny ability to go faster than the speed of light, much like his mentor. When you told him, he was baffled. He couldn't believe that Batman was _Bruce Wayne_ _—_ and you laughed heartily as you reminded him to keep it a secret.

            You hadn't trusted someone so much before.

            He knew things about you that even you didn't know about yourself. He knew things about you that you didn't even trust yourself of knowing. He made you laugh. He made the tears disappear. He made your heavy heart lighten. He gave you what you didn't know you ever-so-silently yearned for— _a friend_.

            He made you feel truly like a kid. With him, you weren't afraid to joke or tease or act childish in forts of blankets and pillows. With him, you weren't afraid to cry and be dependent and lean on a shoulder. He was the warmth you needed to thaw your heart.

            You didn't keep track of when it stopped being _just_ friendship. You had begun to like him. Love him, even. Painfully so. You promised yourself to spare him of your feelings, but one Christmas eve, he had told you felt the same way. He claimed he's felt it even before you began to love him.

            "I can't believe you're the protege of the World's Greatest Detective, and you had no clue." He teased, voice quiet as he inched closer to your face.

            "I can't believe you're the second fastest person in the world, and you were _that_ slow." You replied, with equal childish snark evident in your voice. It made him press his lips to yours; and it felt right. It felt right when you gripped the front of his shirt. It felt right went he kept a steady, protective hand on the small of your back. It felt right when you pulled away, and you got lost in his emerald eyes. You blushed. He was turning red, too, that you could barely see the freckles that scattered his face anymore. He just hugged you after that, tightly locking you in his arms. He'd always wanted to, but you never understood such affectionate gestures, so he couldn't get the proper chance to. Now, he took his opportunity with this, and you let yourself relax into his embrace. It was right.

            What could you have done? You were young, and in love.

            That way, it only hurt _more_ when you fought or disagreed. That way, it hurt the worst when you _lost him_.

            I descended onto Earth that day, overseeing the chaos the aliens had brought upon your race. Wally had always been brave. Too brave. Too selfless. Too loving. That was what killed him.

            He was rusty because he'd done without so many years on field, and so he was slower than the Flash and Impulse. His fearlessness caused him his life. He disappeared into thin air, but I was able to grasp his soul. He was too tired when he was in my arms. But he was whispering an apology. To you. I wish you could have heard it.

            You stayed strong for everyone else; they expected you to be. You were embracing them when they cried into your shoulders. Behind closed doors, you cried harder than everyone else had.

            You passed by the Hall of the Fallen Heroes, hardly sparing it a glance. You couldn't bare to see any of it anymore.

 

 

IV.

 

            Bruce Wayne or Batman, it never mattered much to you. When you were younger, his attention meant the world to you. As you grew up, you wouldn't admit it, but it still did. You remember him bringing cookies for you at night, telling you it was just so Alfred couldn't wake up. When in fact, a part of you knew he'd only wanted to spend at least some of his time with you. You remember the rare smiles you'd get out of him when he was proud of you—it didn't matter whether it was Dick Grayson's achievement, or Robin's, he loved seeing the light in you brighten with a mention of a praise. You remember how he cried when he thought he would lose you forever, and how much it actually pained him once you left his side.

            When you were a kid, you had nightmares often. You still have them now, and they don't happen that much lesser, but you learned how to deal them by yourself better. On the nights you awoken with a terrible dream, you'd be crying and it would have been storming outside. The thunderclaps matched the frantic beats of your heart. You tried to be brave, wrapping yourself snug in your blanket, but you wouldn't stop crying. Suddenly, you heard footsteps.

            "Alfred?" you called. You peeked from the blanket. It was Bruce.

            He sat next to you, and he didn't even have to ask; he knew what was going on. He petted your hair, and brushed strands away from your face. "Shhh, it's okay." He told you. You believed those words right away.

            When you fell asleep again, the nightmares were gone. All because you knew Bruce would be next to you when morning came.

            He had done so much for you. He had love you so much when no one else could. And all this time, his care for you; his unconditional love—it had been a constant. You thought it would always be there. You weren't wrong. It was still there. _He_ just wasn't.

            But exactly how he was always there for you was maybe why it was so hard for you to believe it. You couldn't cry. Couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. It went like this for the longest time, and Alfred became evidently worried for you.

            I was worried too, even after I had taken his soul. His soul still flickers with thoughts of you. He wouldn't have wanted to seen you like this.

            You finally gave up. You gave up sucking in your tears. One night, while you took a final look at his old Batsuit, your tears flowed without stop. I was afraid because with each sharp intake of breath, I could see the light within you falter. The light within you was dying.

            You sat, face in your hands, crying until morning came. I saw Alfred stop by to drape a blanket over your frame, his own tears making their way down his aged face.

 

 

V.

 

            I don't remember the last time I've seen you truly smile.

            You've never been so happy in what seemed like forever. After taking on Batman's role, you had expected yourself to become even more miserable, especially with all the pressures left on you. But the world suddenly brought you happiness. Happiness in the form of a grumpy 10 year-old boy.

            He fought side by side with you. Most of the times he criticized you, outsmarted you. At those times you'd be amusedly thinking: _I was never like this with Bruce_. But you didn't love him any less. Because in this world, sometimes he and Tim were the only things you were sure you even loved anymore.

            He'd catch you off-guard when he decided to express his feelings; this was because he usually hid behind a mask of childish anger and stubbornness. But when he pulled at your sleeve, and asked you so sincerely to stay by his side until he fell asleep—well, who are you to say no? At this age, you got nightmares too. You remember it vividly. Bruce did this for you, and Damian deserved the comfort as well, if not more.

            "What are the dreams about?" You'd always ask.

            "Tt. None of your business, Grayson." would be his usual answer. Tonight was different. He avoided your gaze when he said, "My father's gone." The room was suddenly filled with heavy silence. Hesitantly, you reached out to hold his and say that you knew how he felt. Because you did. You lost your mother once, and your father twice.

            "No, you do not know what I mean." Damian said. You were puzzled, but Damian kept going. "I find that I am content without him, for the time being. You are a sufficient adult figure, even if sometimes you act more infantile than I do."

            You smiled, but you didn't say anything.

            "Stop smiling like an idiot." He snapped. Your smile only grew wider. "In my dreams, I see Batman being taken away from me. I always thought the Batman in my dreams was my father." He explained. You were expecting him to say that he finally had come to terms with the fact that he wanted his father back, but it wasn't the case. "But I had realized, it was not. It was you."

            You were almost a loss for what to say, and that was new. You _always_ knew what to say; you were Dick Grayson. "Are you saying you're scared of losing me?" You asked softly.

            Damian groaned. "When you put it like that, it sounds infinitely juvenile and ridiculous." He said, mad. But then he casted his eyes down, and admitted in a silent voice, "But I suppose you are right."

            "Thanks, Dami." You told him, sincerely. After such admission, he begrudgingly turned his back from you, called you an idiot, and drifted almost immediately to sleep. You, on the other hand, kept smiling as you gently brushed his raven hair.

            Somewhere along the way, the real Batman somehow took over his job again. It caused everyone too much conflicting feelings when he returned so suddenly and without a warning. In the end, you gave him back his identity and his city. You were Nightwing again, but Damian's Batman would always be you. You knew that much, and that was enough for you.

            All the while, I saw the clock above Damian's head tick. I felt sick in the stomach, if I even had one.

            He died within the hands of someone who bared the same face as him. You were utterly depressed. The most broken I've seen you. You were panicking. Your screaming burned your lungs when you found out. The person I saw, that day, was different from Dick Grayson and I've never seen him before—he was all your feelings of love and anger at the same time. It couldn't be you. But it was.

            Either you didn't want to believe it, or you just desperately didn't want to lose him. You clung to a stupid hope, and when the hope slipped away—when I took his soul with me, you cried your hardest.

            The light in the core of your being abruptly shut off.

            You were all parts angered and saddened. For that time, you were sure you wouldn't feel anything else but those two emotions. You couldn't look Bruce in the eye. You couldn't look at Damian in his coffin. It was all too much.

            You cursed the old Flying Graysons poster you had on your wall. You stared at Jason's Robin costume and the first Batsuit with angry tears stinging your eyes. You looked at Wally's contact number—the one you never had the heart to delete—wondering why he— _all of them_ —ever left.

            "Haven't you taken too much from me?" You questioned, your voice cracking. I presumed you were talking to me.

            _Couldn't you have left Damian alone?_ You thought. _He didn't deserve it._ You weren't aware you whispered it aloud, as you held a death grip on his yellow Robin cape.

            I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to ease your pain anymore. I've gone too far, but as I've said, there was nothing I could ever had done. It was my job to take souls away. Despite myself, I went against my own rules, releasing Damian's soul—even just for a moment—back into your world.

            Maybe you could sense him, because as he hovered over and hugged you, you stopped your crying. You soon fell asleep from all the exhaustion. You looked peaceful. Damian's hand ghosted under your wet eyelashes to wipe away your tears. How different would it be if I let Damian stay?

            To my dismay, I had to take Damian back. I led his soul into the expanse of the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 --

 

            Dick, I am truly sorry. I never enjoyed seeing you cry or killing the brightness in you. I will never quite place the reason why I'm haunted by you, honestly. But I listened to the souls who invested themselves in you, and I finally begun to understand humans. Maybe this is why I am so close to giving up this job—what sick being could partake in hurting people and separating people this way?

            By the time I come to collect your soul as well, I will tell you all these. My apologies and my stories. Hopefully, you'll listen.

            Death doesn't deserve forgiveness. But it will give me a sense of joy when I see your soul amongst all the others who loved you as well.


End file.
